


Your Heart On the Line

by Sidonie



Series: The King's Squire [2]
Category: Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mild Language, Racism, Sexism, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sidonie/pseuds/Sidonie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Zahir fights his demons and learns how to be Jon's squire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Weep For Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter is a loosely connected ficlet, and each begins with a quote from "Little Lion Man." This is part of my series "The King's Squire," but can be read on its own. See my fic "Proposal" (part one) for an explanation on how the series works.

_"Weep for yourself, my man/You'll never be what is in your heart”_

\-----

Zahir pulled his knees up to his chest, rocking back and forth slightly. He couldn't do it. He remembered every assurance he'd given his parents, every “I'm strong enough,” and “don't worry.” They all rang hollow now, empty words he had trivialized back when he didn't know their import. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm the fitful tremors in his hands. Hot tears streaked his face and he dashed them away. He wouldn't cry.

“There you are.” It was the king's voice, heavy and wearied. “I've been searching for you. Come with me.”

Looking up, the squire saw Jon's mud- and sweat-stained face and only began to shake harder. “I—I can't,” he choked out.

His knight-master reached out a gauntlet-clad hand, his gaze kind. “We all have trouble the first time.”

Zahir's face twisted and he looked down again. “I _ran_ ,” he spat.

“I threw up,” Jon replied, his tone even. “What matters isn't what happens now. It's how you use that knowledge in the future to better yourself and protect your country. You are the King's squire. You will stand up, calm yourself, and return to camp. The next time we meet bandits, you will be prepared. Do you understand?”

After a slight hesitation, Zahir nodded and took the proffered hand, hauling himself to his feet. But no matter how reassuring Jon's words, he hadn't been the one to flee. Zahir knew he would always be a coward, and the knowledge shredded his ambitions like steel through paper. He had wanted so badly to be great, but from this moment on his reassurances would turn to dust in his mouth.

At least he could still lie.


	2. Not As Brave

_“Weep little lion man/You're not as brave as you were at the start”_

\-----

Jon had been right. The next time they met trouble on the road, Zahir didn't find himself fleeing for the nearest shelter. He fought beside his knight-master, wincing every time a blow connected with his sword or shield. He hacked at mostly unarmored men. He felt their flesh give way beneath the biting edge of his weapon, and each time he was consumed by a shivering panic, the urge to drop everything, curl up in the midst of the chaos, and sob. How he resisted was anyone's guess, but when it was over and Jon looked at him with an approving smile, his cowardice didn't pain him quite so much.


	3. All the Courage

_“Rate yourself and rake yourself/Take all the courage you have left”_

\-----

“Come on, hit me,”

“Your Majesty—”

“Stop calling me that. I'm your knight-master, for Mithros' sake, drop the respect! Now, _hit me_.”

Zahir locked his dark eyes with Jon's blue ones. “You're a terrible king,” he muttered.

“I can't _hear you_!” The king was stalking around him now, his gaze wild.

His squire raised his chin and squared his shoulders. “I said you are a terrible king, sir!” he barked. “You take no real authority, but are ruled by your nobility. You waste important resources educating a populace that will never need to learn reading, writing, or mathematics. Your spies are run by a former criminal—the Rogue, no less—and your Champion is little more than a jumped-up whore who gained her knighthood by bedding you while she was your squire. You allow an unfeminine monstrosity to openly flout years of tradition and cheat her way through her page years under the favor and protection of the authorities. In short, you are not fit to rule.”

“See, was that so hard?” Jon clapped him on the shoulder, the proximity of his strong hand to Zahir's face making the squire flinch. “Be warned, if you ever say anything like that again, I'll set you to joust every round and a few extra against Lord Wyldon in the next tournament, but at least we now know where we stand.”

Zahir clenched his teeth and gave a tense nod. “Yes, your Majesty,” he replied.

His monarch gave a dazzling grin. “Relax. It's still Jon.”


	4. All the Problems

_“Wasted on fixing all the problems/That you made in your own head”_

\-----

“He hates me.”

“No he doesn't.”

“I called him a terrible king to his face.”

“Well, since when do you care about what His Majesty thinks of you? He's just some pompous, dangerously liberal, ineffective royal.” Quinden took another gulp of ale, grimacing at the poor quality. “Honestly, you should take his bad opinion as a compliment.”

Zahir sighed, propping his head on his hands. “He's my _knight-master_. It just . . . it doesn't feel right. I worry what he thinks of me all the time, and I hate it.”

“You've gone soft.”

“I have not!”

“You have. Look at you, whining and moping over whether an awful ruler _likes_ you. If you ask me, you should tell him off whenever he'll let you, ignore him the rest of the time, and just wait for the Chamber to vindicate us. That bitch Alanna might have witched it, but Mindelan won't be able to do the same. You wait and see.”

Zahir nodded, but his mind was far away.


	5. Tremble For Yourself

_“Tremble for yourself, my man/You know that you have seen this all before”_

\-----

With the royal procession and the rising tensions at the border with Scanra, every moment of Zahir's day was filled with training, socializing, or paperwork. He read supply lists, talked to quartermasters, witnessed royal decrees, helped settle disputes between noblemen spoiling for a fight, tended his gear, rode and practiced his sword work every chance he got, and did a million other duties ranging from mind-numbing to heart-pounding. Sleep was secondary, relaxation even more so.

But one night, as he squinted at Sir Gareth of Naxen's illegible scrawl, Jon walked up and clapped him on the back. “No more,” he announced.

“Sir?”

“If we continued this for another moment, I would worry about your sanity. And mine. So let's go out.”

Zahir gave him a quizzical stare. In the months he had been a squire, he thought he had come to some sort of understanding of the king, but occasionally he found himself as baffled as at the start.

“Kings don't just 'go out,' sir,” he protested.

“They don't,” Jon conceded. “But not all kings have friends in the Rogue.”

\-----

So it came to be that Zahir and the ruler of Tortall sat up late in the Dancing Dove. Jon was disguised, his beard shorn and skin browned so he looked like another Bazhir. The transformation was surprisingly convincing, and his squire began to wonder just how often the king went among his people without fanfare.

They took spots at a corner table, where Jon ordered them ale. He was different than Zahir had ever seen him, the courtier's mask completely dropped for the first time. He joked with thieves and cutpurses, flirted with flower girls, and demonstrated unexpected skill at slights of hand. When he caught his squire staring wide-eyed at him as he made a copper noble vanish from sight, he winked.

“I had a more disreputable youth than most people know,” he laughed. “Alanna—then Alan—befriended George early in her page years, and she began bringing us here. You don't mingle with the Rogue without picking up a few tricks.”

Perhaps Zahir had drunk too much at that point, because before he could stop to think who he was talking to, he snorted bitterly. “Should have known the witch was also a criminal,” he muttered.

As soon as the words left his mouth, he went cold. He looked up to meet Jon's gaze, expecting a blow or a dismissal.

The king sighed, toying with his mug. “Zahir, I can only think your prejudice is born of staggering ignorance. Do you know how many times the Lady Alanna has saved my life? Or preserved the future of this nation? I don't. I've lost count.” He met his squire's eyes steadily. “She not only managed to maintain the illusion of being a man for years, but in the meantime became the best of us, working at all hours. She had little natural skill with a sword, and yet practiced so incessantly that within a year she had no equal in court. She was—and is—recklessly brave, with the ability to throw herself headlong into a situation and emerge victorious. She never sought notoriety, but gained it even before her sex was revealed, simply for her obvious talent. When she was revealed—after killing the most dangerous man this kingdom has ever faced—she did not revel in the attention, but fled to your people, where she learned your customs and became beloved, despite everything against her. You know the Bazhir, and they do not give respect where it is not earned. She had the opportunity to become my Queen, but would not because she knew she could never be what this country needs in a monarch. She has shown more courage, strength, and intelligence than I had thought possible in anyone, man or woman, and she is still among the dearest of my friends and advisers.

“I know a speech cannot immediately change your hatefulness, but I want you to have all the facts. When you meet her—and you will, I promise—do so with an open mind and heart, because you may never know a better person. I pray to Mithros you will be able to move past this backwards attitude, which denies the humanity and skill of half our citizens. If not, I will have failed you.”

With that, the king stood and went to talk with the bartender, leaving Zahir in the corner. The squire stared fixedly at the tabletop, trembling with rage, grief, and confusion. Before he had become Jon's squire, he would have dismissed it as lies without blinking, but he had spent every day since then observing the king's direct and honest dealings with his subjects, and now his mind was a chaos of contradictory opinion. If he believed in Jon—as he was perhaps beginning to—did it follow that he believed in the lady knight?

He had no answer, and so he finished his ale and left. Although he was still inclined to believe her an abomination and likely a whore, he would reserve judgment for now. It was safer that way.


	6. You'll Never Settle

_“Tremble little lion man/You'll never settle any of your scores”_

\-----

A boot thudded down in front of Zahir, encrusted with thick black muck. “Clean that, boy, and there's a copper in it for you,” a man drawled.

He gritted his teeth, keeping his expression calm by force of will. Gods, but he hated tournament camps. They brought the rough young knights out of the woodwork, and they only got worse living in close proximity to each other.

Picking up the boot, Zahir tossed it back at the man's feet. “I fear you have mistaken me,” he replied. “I am a squire, and not yours. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more important work to do.”

He turned to leave, but was stopped by another man, who placed his massive hand in the center of Zahir's chest and shoved him back a few steps. “A squire?” he sneered. “Likely story.”

The first man stood as well, smiling grimly. “All I see is a sand louse with delusions of grandeur,” he spat. “You'll clean my boots, _boy_ , or I'll want to know why.”

Zahir took a deep breath, pushing down the burning fury rising in his throat. “I will be clearer,” he stated coolly. “I am the king's squire. Let me go.”

“The _king's_ squire?” the bigger one snarled. “Mithros, I know you savages lie as often as you breathe, but you'd think civilization would have at least taught you to make your tales believable.”

“If you spent more time at court and less in some provincial backwater fucking swine, you would know this,” Zahir snapped. He immediately regretted it, as both men drew their swords, their expressions darkly furious.

“If you were a man, I'd take you to the lists for that, but as you are a rat, I'll extract my payment here and now.”

Mind scrambling, Zahir cursed his decision to leave his blade in his tent. He drew a dagger from his boot and another from the small of his back, settling into a fighting stance.

“I'm going to warn you one more time,” he said, trying desperately to keep his voice from shaking. “Hold your peace.”

“Look, it arms itself like a thief,” the smaller of the two growled. “Should have known a sand louse would be a criminal as well. When we're done here, we can cut off his hands and take them to the Lord Provost.”

Before Zahir could say he'd met the Lord Provost and the man would find that barbaric, they launched themselves at him with matching roars. He just managed to deflect their blades, slipping between them with a practiced twist. Surprisingly, the larger recovered first, spinning and aiming a deadly blow at Zahir's side. He caught the sword between his crossed knives, the force of it jarring his arms in their sockets.

A footfall behind him gave away the other and Zahir disengaged, dodging away. He was not quite quick enough, however, and the tip of the man's sword scored a line of white-hot pain down his back. He screamed and fell to his knees, flinging one of his daggers at his attacker. It thudded into the man's shoulder and he howled as his companion slammed a plate-clad boot into Zahir's ribs. His vision went dark as he felt bone crack and he lashed out blindly with his remaining blade, feeling hot blood slick his fingers as the steel bit into what he supposed was a thigh. A giant hand wrapped around his throat, hauling him to his feet as he struggled to breathe, his head swimming. The dagger was dashed from his hands and he scrabbled at the mans' thick fingers, his movements growing steadily weaker as he failed to break the vise-like grip.

“ _Enough_.” The tone was one of barely restrained, icy rage, so dark Zahir almost didn't recognize it. Any doubts as to the identity of the speaker, however, were allayed when he was unceremoniously dropped. He attempted to get to his feet, but collapsed, retching, each convulsion jarring his ribs and sending bolts of pain through him.

“Stay where you are.” Jon stepped forward, handing the servant boy by his side a gold noble. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said evenly. “Now, I want your names and an explanation of this disgraceful behavior.”

The man with the muddy boots stood and gave a deep bow, one hand still clutching his bleeding shoulder. “Your Majesty, I am Sir Roran of Meag. I was readying myself for my next match when this servant passed by. I requested he help with cleaning my gear. He refused and was insolent, and when I demanded some respect, he insulted my honor most grievously. I challenged him, he drew hidden weapons, and he attacked without warning, at which point my friend and I defended ourselves.”

“Rather brash for an unarmored man with only daggers to assault two knights in plate and carrying swords,” Jon remarked.

“Your Majesty, he does not lack for boldness,” the larger man interjected. “I am Sir Walen of Linshart. From the manner of his weaponry, I would guess the wretch is involved with the Rogue. And he told outrageous lies, claiming to be your Majesty's own squire.”

The king's face was impassive. “Indeed, a most impudent claim.” He nodded at the knights. “Thank you for your interpretations. We shall resolve this soon enough, I think. There remains but one side to be heard.”

Moving with deliberate, unhurried steps, he crossed the space and knelt next to Zahir. A small gasp went up from the assembled crowd as his knees hit the muddy ground, followed by furious whispers when he took the youth's face in his hands, gently wiping away the dirt, tears, and blood. If Zahir hadn't been so focused on breathing, he would have laughed at the expressions of his assailants.

“Zahir, what happened?” Jon asked softly.

He coughed, tasting the iron tang of blood. “I was walking to meet you when Sir Roran threw his boot at me and ordered me to clean it,” he gasped. “I politely refused. He and Sir Walen detained me. They insulted my people and disbelieved my claims as to my station. I did make an ill-considered comment, whereupon they attacked.” He grimaced. “We fought. I lost. I'm sorry, Jon.”

A flurry went through the spectators at his use of the king's first name. Roran and Walen gaped, their mouths hanging open. Jon stood slowly, turning to the servant boy who had apparently brought him the news.

“Who is telling the truth?”

Face grave, the child pointed to Zahir and Jon nodded in acceptance. “Thank you. I thought as much. Zahir ibn Alhaz, do you wish to challenge for the insult to your honor and person?”

The squire's mouth twisted bitterly as he assessed his injuries. “I don't believe I'll be able to joust for some time,” he replied.

“Very well.” The king turned back to the offenders. “You two will appear before Duke Turomot tomorrow and do what penance he sees fit. You will make a public confession of guilt and a complete apology. Of any fines levied by the court, half will go to my squire and half to equip the Bazhir in the Riders and the Own. And if you ever even _think_ of doing anything like this again, you will feel the full force of the Crown's wrath. Now, get out of my sight.”

They hurried away, the crowd dispersing with them. Jon knelt beside Zahir again, inspecting his wounds.

“We should get you to Baird.”

“Thank you,” Zahir rasped. The coherency he had managed to summon for the questioning was deserting him, and he struggled to form rational sentences in the midst of the pain.

“I though I was going to die.”

The king pulled him to his feet, supporting most of his weight. “Prejudice is an ugly thing,” he replied.

There was a moment of tense silence, and then Jon grinned. “I see you've begun to realize the benefits of consorting with the Rogue, though,” he chuckled. “I didn't know you had taken to carrying so many knives on you.”

Zahir gave a small, nearly hysterical giggle, the motion leaving him gasping in agony. He spat out a clot of blood.

“Yes, well, maybe the criminal element is good for something,” he conceded. “Pity I didn't get to use all of them.”

Jon laughed all the way to the healer's tent.


End file.
